


Cocktail Parties and Awkward Meetings

by CoffeeAndConjunctions



Series: A Relationship As Told By Meals [12]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-19
Updated: 2016-06-19
Packaged: 2018-07-16 01:02:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,626
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7245907
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CoffeeAndConjunctions/pseuds/CoffeeAndConjunctions
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>With his back pressed against the edge of the bed he works on taking apart a Glock 17, he can assemble and disassemble one in under five seconds but takes his time now. Gun oil soaks the rag at his side, he's meticulous about the care of his weapons (he's not meant to have them but the tower is full of niches to hide weapons, he takes advantage).</p><p> </p><p>The room smelled of her scented candles and perfume when he'd soundlessly opened the door, she'd assigned him residence status to her rooms in the event of emergencies, and creeped into the room with the Glock and cleaning kit.</p><p> </p><p>Now her room had an underlain scent of gun oil.</p><p> </p><p>His hands don't stop the task, don't stumble over reattaching the barrel, until the gun is clean and shinning even in the dim moonlight. Once he is more centered, has allowed the monotony of gun care to soothe his worry, he rises to loom over the sleeping form of the young woman whose so unaware of the dangerous presence in her room.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cocktail Parties and Awkward Meetings

xii. Gun Oil and Strudels

Darcy popped a blueberry into her mouth (he resists the urge to reach into her mouth and make her spit out and untested food) and gave a little sigh of satisfaction before she began chatting with the vendor, he wasn't particularly tuned into the conversation. Instead he was taking stolk of their surroundings—open market places weren't secure in anyway but it would be easy enough to lose anyone in the crowd forming early on Saturday morning.

 

Six tents down a fish vendor was handling a blade with loose, practiced wrists. The gleam of the blade in the sun puts him on edge, instinctively he leaned further into Darcy's space—her hair is up in a messy ponytail and her strawberry stained fingers reach out to curl around his gloved hand for a moment before she's digging into the pocket of her jeans for bills.

 

The touch centers him, brings him out of the haze of assessing, a habit of the Soldier which was too ingrained to turn of voluntarily.

 

Slung over his right shoulder were several bags filled with produce and fruits, Darcy had argued on carrying some of them (her brow scrunched and nose wrinkling drawing his eyes to newly formed freckles that the summer brought) it had been a valiant effort but she didn't stand a chance. So she'd pouted, crossed her arms (then _he_ made the valiant effort of keeping his eyes on her face) and relented.

 

Darcy lifts on to tip toes to tuck the carton of blueberries in one of her bags the swaying hem of her sundress brings a flash of a woman falling to her knees, hem swaying as the blood from her husband's corpse soaked into the fabric from the sight of his scope. A thumb is stroking his neck just below the jaw when he refocuses, blue eyes search his face (they are shadowed with a concern he has no comfort for).

 

She smiles when he gives her his full attention, he finds himself mimicking the gesture more easily, her fingers find their way back to his (entwining in a familiar motion) and she's tugging him away from the stand and from dark thoughts.

 

The ride back to the tower is mostly taken up with her recounting her finds (despite him being present) as if it was a treasure hunt, the radio is turned down low and fills the small gaps where the conversation falls into a lulls. He finds he doesn't have many words, some days are like this where years of near mutism forces itself to the forefront. He still has trouble finding words on the best days but they usually flow smoother around his Asset.

 

No, Darcy, she was Darcy.

 

(To much of the Soldier was present, the numbing silence of this persona was soothing in a way. It took away the pain from frayed memories and half remembered horrors. But he couldn't allow himself to fall too deep.)  
  


_His_ Darcy, he settles on.  
  


With murmured sounds of acknowledgement he spurs on more words from her, grateful she doesn't push or try to pry out words, until they pull into the garage of the Tower. Unbuckling himself quickly he is gathering bags from the back before she can get any ideas about carrying them.  
  


“Thanks for coming with me,” She's playing with the ring on her middle finger, he'd catalogued that as a nervous tick months ago, looking up at him behind the frame of her red glasses (the color contrasting with the pale skin of her lids and the blue of her eyes). “It was nice to be out with you.”

Leaning over he places his lips at the edge of the scar cutting through her brow and remembers with grim satisfaction the burrowing holes his bullets had left in the skull of her kidnappers. The words come then, his voice sounds raspy even to his ears.  
  


“Anything for you, Doll.”  
  


With a huff she pushes down the brim of his baseball cap but it doesn't distract him from the blush blooming on her cheeks, she flushed so easily with her pale skin (so frail looking with her blue veins standing out beneath her flesh but he knows she has an iron will).  
  


“You're such a dork, Barnes.”

 

Not Bucky today, good. He doesn't feel like Bucky.  
  


He's starting to realize though, that all of him feels like they are _hers._

* * *

With his back pressed against the edge of the bed he works on taking apart a Glock 17, he can assemble and disassemble one in under five seconds but takes his time now. Gun oil soaks the rag at his side, he's meticulous about the care of his weapons (he's not meant to have them but the tower is full of niches to hide weapons, he takes advantage).  
  


The room smelled of her scented candles and perfume when he'd soundlessly opened the door, she'd assigned him residence status to her rooms in the event of emergencies, and creeped into the room with the Glock and cleaning kit.  
  


Now her room had an underlain scent of gun oil.  
  


His hands don't stop the task, don't stumble over reattaching the barrel, until the gun is clean and shinning even in the dim moonlight. Once he is more centered, has allowed the monotony of gun care to soothe his worry, he rises to loom over the sleeping form of the young woman whose so unaware of the dangerous presence in her room.  
  


Taking care not to jostle her out of sleep, he knows she has work in the morning—responsibilities, friends, a wonderful budding future ahead of her—and doesn't wish to disturb. All the care seemed for nought because almost instinctively she seems to rolls over to him, seeking out his body heat maybe, and blinks away sleep with heavy lids.  
  


Draped over his left shoulder, the tips of her fingers sneak under the hem of his shirt to ghost over the his stomach, her cheek is pillowed at the crock of his neck. When her warm body curls into his side (she enjoys this position, it's distinctly feline he thinks for a moment) she sighs as if content. It's not the first time she's woken to him in her room and Darcy has taken it in stride from the go—some nights he needs to know she's safe (that she is _real_ ) so he will keep vigil at her side.

Darcy is drawing nonsensical pattern onto his flesh, geometrical shapes, the crude shape of a five petaled flower and then her fingers rise and she's spelling out his name over his heart (it takes him till the second time to piece together the letters). Over and over she traces the name as if she wants to engrave the words.  
  


“Wanna talk about it?” she asks (she asks every time, giving the opportunity but never demanding an explanation) and when he doesn't reply she just places a lingering kiss to his temple.  
  


Then his cheek.  
  


Finally she's propped up on an elbow and brushing her lips along his. It's chaste and sweet, nothing like the searing kisses they've shared before—it's a kiss of comfort. She'd not awake for much longer, silence and his steady heart beat lulling her back to sleep (he wonder for her sense of preservation that she can sleep so easily cuddles against his bionic arm). He tangles his hand in the dark mass of her air and keeps vigil over her slumber.

* * *

A bit of bourbon is poured over the raisins before she sticks the bowl in the microwave for a little under a minute. Diced apples are already in a larger bowl with brown sugar, spice and lemon juice. With a beep the microwave lets her know the raisin are done and soon she's dumping them into the mixture. There's a hop to her step when she is rolling out the puff pastry she'd left in the fridge that had been prepared a few days ago.

Erik was on his way to New York for Jane's birthday, she'd missed the older scientist (she kept contact as best she could but since Loki he wasn't the same, distant and distrustful of everything but well on his way to recovery) so she was making strudel for his visit.

Rolling strudel was delicate work and she'd only made it a few times before, but Darcy was determined to have it come out perfect. Erik deserves a little perfect in his life, even if it was just from nostalgic pastry.

Leaving the pastry to cool out of the oven with a clean dish towel draped over it and a note promising bodily harm to whoever even thinks about stealing Erik's special made strudel she goes off to change for tonight's soiree. The party is meant to be a low key cocktail and dinner combination but she knows that low key isn't really part of Tony Starks vocabulary and Thor happens to have a little bit of a skewed idea on it too.

So after showering she dons a little black number, it has delicate lace work for sleeves, waist cinched in with a slim red belt and reaches just above the knees, along with her pair of red pumps that her calves look amazing. Putting in her contacts, blinking away the gathering moisture she applies a liberal coat of mascara. Slicking lipstick over her lips with careful strokes as a final touch Darcy puckers up and send herself a kiss in the mirror.

She had a Super Solider waiting in her living room and they might actually make it to the party this time.

They do make it to the party, but she'd forgotten about _Ian._  
  


 

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry for the long delay! I was away for a little mini vacations but glad to be back. Hope you enjoy this 2 parter update, next part coming soon.
> 
> As always thank your the lovely comments!
> 
> Oh and if you like this work be on the look out for my new work, I'm gonna try my hand at the time travel WinterShock fic. Wish me luck!


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